The Shadow Hashira - Tengen X Reader X Sanemi

43

The crowd's eager murmurs filled the evening air, a low hum of excitement reverberating as the Hashira gathered in the arena. Tonight, however, wasn't about strength or destruction—it was about flair. We were here to prove not only the power of our techniques but the artistry, control, and precision that came with them.

I took a steadying breath, trying to calm the nervous energy bubbling up in my chest. This wasn't going to be simple. My techniques thrived in shadow, in silence. Flashiness, bold displays... that was a different kind of strength—one I didn't know if I could pull off. And tonight, with only faint evening shadows to work with, the usual comfort of darkness felt distant.

Master Oyakata's calm, soothing voice rose over the crowd, instantly quieting the murmurs. "Tonight's trial is one of flair," he announced, his words imbued with a quiet strength. "True skill is found not only in power but in the beauty of one's mastery. Show us the essence of your techniques. Show us what sets each of you apart."

The crowd erupted in cheers, but I could only focus on my heartbeat, which drummed louder with each passing second. I caught sight of Tengen, his usual confident smirk plastered across his face as he adjusted his headband, and, almost as if sensing my nerves, he turned, giving me a wink.

"Don't stress too much, Moonlight," he whispered, leaning in. "Just let them see what I already know—you're more than capable of stealing the show."

The way he looked at me sent a warmth through my chest, and I felt a flicker of reassurance. "Hope you're not planning to make this easy for me then," I murmured, trying to keep my cool.

He chuckled, shrugging with that familiar arrogance. "Please. I don't do easy."

But just beyond him, I noticed Sanemi watching, his gaze sharp and assessing, almost like he was sizing me up. He looked away the second our eyes met, but the tension was palpable, crackling between us like an unspoken challenge. A part of me wanted to confront him, to ask him what he expected, to demand that he acknowledge my place here. Another part of me, however, felt a rush of nerves. It was like he didn't quite believe I was ready to be here—and it stung, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

Master Oyakata raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Sanemi Shinazugawa," he called, "you will begin."

Sanemi strode forward, all confidence and grit. His gaze flickered briefly to me as if daring me to watch closely. I swallowed, steeling myself. He moved with a fierce elegance, each strike of his Wind Breathing technique controlled yet wild, a cyclone of blades that shredded through the air. He wielded his sword with devastating precision, carving arcs into the air like deadly art. It was mesmerizing—and I hated admitting it. His technique spoke of raw, barely restrained power, beautiful and dangerous. A reminder of why he was the Wind Hashira.

When he finished, he glanced my way, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of smug satisfaction and something deeper, like he'd set the bar just to see if I could reach it.

Fine, I thought, gritting my teeth. Challenge accepted.

Mitsuri was next, her movements graceful and fluid, every slash of her Love Breathing technique mesmerizing the crowd. She spun in sweeping arcs, her sword creating ribbons of light that seemed to dance in the air, casting the arena in soft, colourful glows. I caught myself smiling at her—she'd taken this trial as a chance to show the joy in her strength, her delight evident in every movement.

Then came Gyomei, whose grounded, deliberate stance conveyed a quiet, solid power. He moved with purpose, each step and swing a testament to the raw strength he commanded with ease. It was captivating in its simplicity, in the way he used such heavy strikes with such control, almost reverent in his precision. The crowd roared in appreciation as he finished, his calm presence leaving an impression of unshakable resolve.